


Fall From You

by poisontaster



Series: Every Broken Thing [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frustrated Sam, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Series, Requited Unrequited Love, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-18
Updated: 2006-08-18
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's eighteen and this isn't enough anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall From You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exsequar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exsequar/gifts).



> Mona1347 wrote a "companion" piece that comes right before this one [Feels Like More](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/216355.html). Written for exsequar's 2006 birthday. Beta by mona1347, with thanks.

"Dean…"

"Shhh." Dean's lips press against the fever hot skin on the back of Sam's neck. "I know, Sammy. It's okay."

"No…no…" It's hard to concentrate with Dean's hand on his dick. Dean knows him too well, they've been doing this too long and Dean is too damn good at it. Sam's back arches and he feels Dean against his ass, hard and swollen. Not that it matters. Not that Sam can do—will be allowed to do—anything about it. "Dean… Dean, wait…"

But it's already too late, Sam's coming. Dean's thumb slips just _that way_ across the underside of Sam's cock, brushes over the slit and Sam lets out a surprised and choked cry, his hips bucking as he spurts. Dean's voice is in his ear, filling up the dark, "It's okay, Sammy, s'okay. It's good, c'mon, let it all go. Let go."

Sam's breath catches, too close to a sob, and he presses his face into the hot pillow, shaking with the aftershock. _It shouldn't be like this_ , he thinks. Against Sam's hip, he can still feel Dean's cock, blood-fever hot and unsatisfied. Sam takes another shaky breath and turns over.

Dean's head is tipped back, exposing his throat, his eyes are closed. He's breathing hard, erratically. Sam feels the same hurtful flutter in his chest that he did on his eighteenth birthday, like there's a bird loose inside him with razor blades for wings. Dean is so…beautiful.

Heat flushes through his face and neck at the thought, nothing he could ever say. Not to Dean, who would laugh and wrestle him to the floor and give him an Indian Burn or grind his knuckles into Sam's scalp, call him a puss and a punk and then leave him there.

Sam stares at Dean's cock, hard and smooth, curving gently but mostly straight. He remembers what it felt like in his hand that night. He wonders again how it would taste on his tongue, wonders how it would feel inside him. He's seen pictures—not all his time on the computer is spent on homework—men much larger than him or Dean or even Dad, but it always seems so improbable.

Doesn't stop him from wanting it, though. Dean's cock.

Dean's cock inside him.

Before he can think too much or too hard about it, Sam reaches out and puts his hand on Dean's thigh just below his balls. The skin is hot, almost searing, under a light furring of hair. Dean's breath hitches and his head snaps up. Sam bites his lip and slithers his fingers quickly over Dean's cock instead, thumbs over the ridge. Dean's shiver goes to his toes and Sam can't help but smile.

"Sammy—" Dean's hand, still sticky with Sam's come, closes over Sam's wrist.

"You…you didn't come," Sam says, stammering like he's a lot younger than eighteen. "You didn't… I can…"

"It's all right, Sam. I'm fine."

Dean's holding his hand still, but Sam's fingers are still free; he caresses Dean's shaft with his fingertips, ignoring the pain as Dean's grip tightens, grinding the bones together. He could make Dean feel it if Dean would let him. Dean wants him. Dean must want him if he gets so hard just…just touching Sam, just making Sam come. "I want to," Sam says. He feels like he's whining; Dean always makes him feel like a greedy kid at moments like this, instead of a man grown. "I want…to touch you, Dean. Please?"

Dean's hips are making tiny little trembles, but he reaches with his other hand to pry Sam's fingers loose, hissing. "Those aren't the rules, Sammy," he says. His voice is mocking, but his tone shakes. Holding Sam's hand, Dean push-slides backwards, out of the narrow bed.

"But we can _change_ them!" Sam insists, sitting up.

Dean's mouth twists. It's horrible, almost like his smile but not, as he backs up across the room, still naked, still hard. Dean shakes his head. "Nah." He looks down at his hand, sticky and smutted and swipes his tongue across the palm. "We can't."

And here they are, right back in the same place they always are, the same secret, sordid place where Sam is offering his heart on a plate and Dean's giving back nasty hand-jobs in the dark.

"Dean—" He's tangled in the sheets. Sam kicks one leg free just as Dean opens the door and puts a finger to his lips.

"Shhh," Dean says. "You'll wake Dad."

"Dad's not home!" Sam shouts at the closing door.

***

"Hsst!"

At the librarian's hiss and irritated glare, Sam realizes he's been tapping his pen repetitively on the desk's surface. Sam swallows and shoots her an earnest and apologetic look, mouthing "Sorry!"

Her eyes narrow and her lips purse tighter, but she returns to the pile of books in front of her. Sam breathes a quiet sigh of relief and turns back to his notebook. It's possible he's feeling a little high-strung. But the thought of what Dad would do—what _Dean_ would do—if they find out…

Sam looks at the application again:

_Choose one and write an essay:_

_1\. "A picture is worth a thousand words" as the adage goes. (You're limited to the space provided, however.) Sometimes a photo or picture can capture an object that you treasure, a person you admire or a place that you love; sometimes a photograph is simply your record of an experience or moment in your life. Imagine one photo or picture that you have, or would like to have, and tell us why it is meaningful to you._

_2\. As you reflect on your life thus far, what has someone said, written or expressed in some fashion that is especially meaningful to you? Why?_

God. This is fucked up. He can't even decide on _which_ of the essay questions to answer, let alone _how_ to answer them and time is running out. He's been procrastinating wildly, still torn by massive uncertainty that this is even what he wants to do. He can live without the hunting. The thought of it, of this iron curtain of perpetual fear being lifted from his shoulders, is…dizzying. Sam can't remember a time when he hasn't been afraid—of dying, of losing Dad, losing Dean, if not to injury and death, then to being left somewhere or taken away ( _…if they find out, Sammy, they'll take you away. They'll take you and your brother and they'll split us all up. Is that what you want?_ )—always afraid.

And he looks around and he sees that other people, other families aren't like this. Other kids are afraid of things like being grounded or losing their allowance, not whether they can make this shot before the thing on the other end chews their face off or if they can sew up, suture or cauterize their brother's arm before he bleeds to death.

He can be like them. He knows it. If he pretends, long enough hard enough. He can pass.  
  
If he leaves Dean.

_Slam!_

Dean's hands—and the book between them—hit the table with a sound like a bomb going off.

Sam tips back in his chair so hard that it flips over backwards. He blinks up into Dean's grinning face. "Dude," he complains, "t'fuck?"

"You should see your face," Dean chuckles. "God, Sammy, why are you _so lame_?" He puts out a hand and catches Sam's wrist, hauling Sam to his feet dazzlingly fast. "It's your summer vacation and you're _still_ humping around this moldy old library."

"I _like_ the library," Sam retorts thinly, jerking free of Dean's grip. He closes his notebook with a thud and shuffles Xeroxes of the research Dad had him working on over it. Sometimes he hates being eighteen; just that light touch on his wrist, the hand that Dean clapped against his shoulder, has him half hard.

"Yeah, that just shows how fucked up you are, S—"

" _Language_ , young man!" The librarian has returned, managing to look both scandalized and furious.

Dean opens his mouth, probably to say something hideous and inappropriate, but Sam bullies his way in front of Dean, ending up _way_ too close to the librarian. He pushes Dean backwards, hustling him for the door. "You have to excuse my brother," Sam says quickly, as Dean protests half-heartedly and drags his heels. "He was dropped on his head a lot as a baby and hasn't been quite right since."

"Hey!" Dean yelps, offended, and the librarian doesn't look the least bit mollified but Sam's close enough to the door now that he can turn around and shove Dean out into the summer sunshine.

"Way to go, Dean," Sam grumbles, aiming a kick at Dean's shin while Dean dances out of the way. "Now I can never show my face here again."

"No great loss, Sammy, for serious. We're gonna be out of here soon as Dad gets back anyway." Dean leans in and locks an arm around Sam's neck, dragging him close and shoving his mouth up against Sam's ear. "C'mon, let's get out of here and I'll help you with that little problem you got going on there." Hidden from the street by his body and from the library by Sam's, Dean's palm skates over Sam's groin, making him twitch.

"Dean!"

"Is that a no?"

Computers process at slower speeds than it takes Sam to compute that equation. "No, of course not…"

"Well come on, then."

"Yeah, okay." Sam falls into step next to Dean.

***

"Dean?" Sam's voice quavers a bit. Dean just shoved both his jeans and his underwear down to his knees; he hopes Dean will blame it on that.

"Kinda busy here, Sam." Dean's hand is on Sam's ribs, easing him back on the Impala's seat. The wind blows in through the open passenger's side door, fingering through his hair and covering his skin in goose bumps despite the heat. Sam blinks up at the Impala's roof, throat and eyes burning as he thinks, _because this is one of the rules too_.

No looking.

No touching.

Only from me to you.

Sam takes an uneven breath as Dean's lips rub dryly over his shaft before opening to enclose the head. Sam moans in the back of his throat, arching a little before Dean's thumb on his left hip presses him back down. "Dean, I… I want you to fuck me."

Dean chokes and then coughs, his hands leaving Sam's body as he rears back, startled. Sam grabs onto the seat back and pulls himself upright. "I'm serious," he says.

"Sam…Sammy, that…" Dean eases down until he's sitting in the grass. "That's not going to happen."

Sam's hands fist on his thighs. "Why not?"

"Sam—"

"I want you to fuck me, Dean. I _know_ I'm the virgin here, so it's not that. Why…why is it you can do…do this to me," he waves a hand at his dick, still absurdly at attention, "put…put your _fingers_ in me and not that?"

"Because…" Dean flounders, the way he does whenever Sam tries to talk about any of this, bring it out into the daylight. "Because it's different."

" _How?_ "

"It just _is_ , all right?"

Sam lunges at him and—for once—catches Dean off-guard. Dean's breath goes out of him— _oof_ —and then he's on his back, Sam on top of him, catching his wrists, pinning them flat. _"Why can't you do this for me?"_ he half-screams, his voice cracking. He thrusts against Dean hard, feeling that Dean's already erect too, under his jeans. It hurts and it's good and Sam thinks he would be okay, he _could_ be okay if he had any inkling that this was somehow _meaningful_. "Why do you have to make this so hard? I just want…I just want you to be with me, be _in_ me… God, Dean, I'll beg you if I have to, just…just fuck me. Please fuck me. Just do this for me. Please. Do this for me."

Dean blinks at him and Sam wonders how hard Dean hit his head when Sam tackled him. Dean swallows and his voice sounds pinched and wondering when he says, "I only do any of it for you, Sam. I…it's always been for you."

Sam swears and flings himself away from Dean, sitting, feeling like he's going to throw up. He leans against the Impala's side, his forehead resting on the worn edge of the driver's side seat and his breath racing like they've just run sprints.

This is it. This is _it_. This is all it's ever going to be, sneaking around, fucking around. Always almost having… _something_ but nothing real. Nothing he can put his hands on. Nothing he can hold on to.

It's a ghost, just like all the other ghosts they've ever hunted.

He should have known better. After his birthday, he should have known. _Fuck._

"Sam…" Dean gets unsteadily to his hands and knees, crawls closer. "I… We can still…" He reaches between Sam's legs, touches him, cups him.

Sam shudders and flinches away. "Dean, don't…" He looks at Dean and sees there's blood, trickling down behind Dean's ear. "Oh God…Dean. You're bleeding."

Again Dean gives him that slow and glazed look and Sam recognizes it. He looks in the grass, where Dean fell, and sure enough, there's a rock, jagged, small enough to be overlooked. Oh, shit. Tardily, Dean reaches for the sluggish stream, smearing it across his throat. Oh God, he didn't even _notice_ …

"Dean…" Sam drags Dean's fingers away, spits on his thumb and rubs the blood away. "Let me see." He tugs up his underwear and pants, not bothering to zip and slides around to Dean's back. Dean's hair is very soft under his touch. The skin is broken, but it's not deep or bad—even though Dean flinches away like a little puss, swatting at Sam's hands. They've both had worse and the blood is already starting to taper off. Sam fishes out the handkerchief Dad makes them carry ( _makes a good tourniquet, Sammy_ ) and presses it to the back of Dean's head.

He knows this one too. Dean's going to be woozy as hell for about an hour and then he'll be fine.

"M'okay," Dean mutters, trying to pull away. Sam twines his arm under Dean's armpit, wrapping it around Dean's chest, pulling Dean back against him.

"Yeah, Dean, shut up," Sam says.

"M'okay, Sam," Dean insists again. He doesn't try to move this time, though.

"Yeah, Dean; I got it." Sam wraps his other arm around Dean and leans his forehead on Dean's shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—sweat and metal and underneath it, clean skin. "Shut up."

"Fucking head," Dean says, sounding grouchy and simultaneously vague. "Just give me a minute. I'll drive us home."

"We got time," Sam answers. He's kind of amazed he can still talk; his throat feels so tight, so sore.

"M'sorry, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head. "It's fine." Under his wrist, Dean's heart throbs, steady and even. "We can just stay here for a while."

"Okay."

Sam closes his eyes. "Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have to say, I love my friends. Because y'all keep giving me prompts that jive in so neatly with stories that I want to tell anyway. A while ago Mona came to me with the idea for Feels Like More and (in our typical fashion) I just loved it. Love, love, love it. Because if Heart 'verse is the happy ever after, Every Broken thing is its dark and angsty heart. And then exsequar came up with her birthday prompt and I thought, "Baby, have I got a story to tell you!"
> 
> Before I get on with my normal nattering, I'd also like to say that, although I started my story second, I finished mine first, thus driving Mona into an OCD frenzy about "TIMELINE, PT!" and forcing her to finish hers, which has been this close for about a month now. So if you like her fic, blame me! *laughs and blows kisses at ficwife*
> 
> (spoilers for Feels Like More here; please skip if you haven't already read her fic)
> 
> It breaks me how much pain these boys are in at this point in the cycle and when Mona started snipping me bits of Feels Like More, my only response was "My God, no wonder. No wonder they're so angry with each other by the time Dean shows up at Stanford." Because with all this between them, with Sam so much in love and Dean shutting him down at every turn and then when he finally makes the decision to go, that having Dean like this is not worth what he's paying for it, Dean finally gives him what he wants in the harshest fashion possible. Which explains a lot about that encounter, no?
> 
> But then that raised the question…in Mona's story, Sam raises the stakes a lot by trying to become the aggressor, in trying to get some kind of reciprocity from Dean, but there's still that line they haven't crossed. And up through Feels Like More, Sam hasn't asked for it.
> 
> So I thought he should. But of course, we know that doesn't happen. Not until the boys i mean are not refined. But as far as Sam knows, it's a logical progression. Dean touches him. Dean won't let him touch back (because those are the rules). Okay fine. Then if Dean fucks him, it's still Dean touching him, and maybe that is an acceptable compromise.
> 
> Except of course, that it isn't. And the problem with running a single POV through the narrative is that we don't get to see or hear Dean's side of things. Not…exactly. But at this point, it's still so tied up in duty for Dean. He can do this because it's for Sam and as long as he keeps his own gratification secondary. Hand jobs, blow jobs…those are one-sided transactions, for the most part. And again, Dean can keep his own satisfaction secondary. Intercourse—fucking—on the other hand, is a reciprocal, intimate act, one that crosses that threshold of "acceptable help" in Dean's mind and into the realm of "selfish perv". And that step terrifies Dean. Just…terrifies him. Not that he would ever let Sam know any such thing.
> 
> And so we have Dean (from Sam's POV) steadily pushing Sam away, steadily driving Sam away because he won't (can't) offer Sam the one thing that could make it worth it to stay and on the sun hand you have Sam (from Dean's POV) just leaving, when Dean's given him…everything. Everything he had to give, including his own peace of mind.
> 
> So I say again…no wonder, man. No wonder.


End file.
